


Ho Ho Homo

by DreamsAreMyWords



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, CRC, Christmas Eve, Clexa, Clexmas, Clit Lit, Crack, F/F, Fluff, Humor, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 06:37:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18382982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamsAreMyWords/pseuds/DreamsAreMyWords
Summary: Clarke sets out to meet her ex Finn for a casual hookup but there are three problems: the first is that, thanks to a bet she lost with Octavia, she has to wear a ridiculous sexy Santa costume. The second is that Finn gave her the wrong address, and she's definitely just accidentally broke into a stranger's home. The third is that said stranger happens to be a gorgeous woman, and she just passed out upon walking through the door and laying eyes on that Good Christmas Cleavage.





	Ho Ho Homo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [faithtastic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithtastic/gifts).



> So this is my very late Clexmas gift to Nachos. Better late than never right?? Happy Holigays!
> 
> Also thanks to clexabookmarks and thessclexa for being the fantastic binches they are, and to theproseofnight for her brilliant idea of CPR & Lexa kissing Clarke back! <3

“I am _not_ wearing that.”

 

Obnoxious tinkling breaks the silence as Anya scowls and shifts her weight on her legs, looking down at the sweater she’s holding up over her torso for Lexa’s opinion. Lexa stares in frozen horror at the offensive sweater with unmasked disgust that curls her upper lip.

 

“What’s wrong with it?” As though answering her question, the sweater jangles again as Anya moves it.

 

“Look at it.” Lexa wildly gesticulates at it. “That’s the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen in my life!”

 

“Uh, yeah, that’s the point of an ugly Christmas sweater. To be ugly.”

 

Lexa shakes her head, aghast. Anya balls the sweater up and throws it at her, bells ringing again. Lexa opens it to look more closely and finds it is in fact just as hideous up close. It’s a knit sweater, lurid green and decorated with real bells, with the words _“Jingle, Jingle! Wanna Mingle?_ ” plastered across the front.

 

“You’re being harsh,” says Anya, primly adjusting the crease at the hem of her own ugly sweater—a nicer muted green with _“Resting Grinch Face”_ stamped above a cartoon grinch. “That sweater cost a pretty penny at the local Walmart. A whole five dollars.”

 

“I wonder why,” says Lexa sarcastically. “Look at the stitching. It looks like a child made this.”

 

“I’d hope not, considering the message on the sweater.”

 

“And that’s exactly my next point!”

 

“Well, it’s true! You need to get out there! You haven’t seen anyone since you and Costia broke up, aside from a couple casual dates that didn’t go anywhere. You do nothing but work all the time.”

 

“That’s not true. It’s not,” says Lexa obstinately when Anya just gives her a look.

 

“Taking your nephew out for ice cream at the park doesn’t count. You need friends. I don’t count,” she adds when Lexa opens her mouth to protest. “You need _lady loving_ friends. Hint hint, wink wink.”

 

“I don’t know why you’re trying to act all polite about it when you never are every other second of the da—”

 

“You need to get laid.”

 

“And there it is. Thanks. For telling me that for literally the tenth time in an hour and the hundredth time this week. And I’m not wearing this sweater.”

"How rude-olf of you. Yule be sorry for that.”

“I’m not joking.”

Anya rolled her eyes. “Just try it on, at least. I did go to the trouble of buying it for you.”

Lexa relents and does so, grumbling every step of the way. Despite the shoddy quality, it fits snugly. But it frizzes Lexa’s hair as she pulls it free of the neck and sweeps it back over her shoulders with a huff.

Anya appraises her critically before giving a curt nod of approval and saying with absolute seriousness, "You’re sleigh-in’ it."

“God.”

 

Anya smirks. “That’s not my name, but I’ll take it.”

 

Lexa gives a long-suffering sigh, dragging her hand over her face. Her body is heavy and aching, and her head is pounding, and now every movement has bells jingling. Great.

 

“Seriously, don’t take it off. It looks good. Just wear it around the party tonight for a while.”

 

“I wasn’t even planning to go to the party,” groans Lexa, pulling her phone out of her pocket to check the time. Five o’clock. She should already be elbow-deep in last week’s papers by now. “I have too much to do!”

 

“Lexa, you cannot come to the office on Christmas Eve and just _work_ when you don’t even have to be here. Take a fucking break. Or just go _home_ , Jesus. Light your thousands of candles and take a damn bubble bath and relax for once.”

 

“I’m relaxed!” insists Lexa.

 

Anya snorts and points a threatening finger at Lexa’s sweater. “Need I bring up my first point again?”

 

“I’m _fine._ ”

 

Her snappish tone hardens Anya’s expression. “Look, you’re grumpy as hell because you haven’t eaten anything all day and you’re stuck at work on Christmas Eve when you don’t even have to be. And the sad thing is you _love_ Christmas, but look at you! _Go home._ Seriously. No one wants you here.”

 

“Gee. Thanks.”

 

There’s practically steam billowing out of Anya’s nose by this point. “You know what I mean. Honestly, Lexa, look at you, you know what you’re like with low blood sugar, you need to go eat something; you can barely even stand up straight.”

 

“When do I ever do anything straight?”

 

Anya growls. “Get the hell out of here. And come to the party later. Your _presents_ is requested.”

 

That’s it. Anya’s right, Lexa is tired and hungry and she can’t take one more of Anya’s god-awful Christmas-themed puns. “God, _fine._  I’m leaving.”

 

“You’re welcome for the sweater, by the way.”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“Merry Christmas to you too, asshole!”

 

Lexa gathers her things and absently waves at Anya over her shoulder as she totters out of her office. Most of her other coworkers—ones who actually did have to work today—are getting ready for the Christmas party. She sees Emori wearing a sweater of a yoga-practicing Santa with the words _Nama-Sleigh_ on it, and spies Diana Sydney eating her third donut of the afternoon at her desk, wearing a _Christmas Calories Don’t Count_ sweater. Lexa seriously considers turning around to ask for a donut—that’s how hungry she is—but she heads straight out the door instead, shoulders sagging as she makes the walk to her place a block away.

 

The world is gray with the light sprinkling of snow descending from the sky. Maybe Anya has a point. She was right about the fact that Lexa loved Christmas. It’s always been her favorite holiday … the pretty lights, the smell of pine trees in every warm home, the hot cocoa, the peaceful stillness of the cold night air, everything. And... _maybe_ she had a point about Lexa needing to get out more. She hasn’t slept with anyone in half a year. If Lexa’s being perfectly honest, her right arm seems significantly more muscular than her left, though she’s not exactly been working out much lately. She’s been working overtime in an effort to finish a case before the New Year, but recently it’s been at the expense of her health. She’s pretty sure she’s going to pass out if she doesn’t get some food in her belly right now. She’s starting to feel delirious and the bells on her chest keep jingling and you know what, maybe she _should_ have a relaxing bath. She could even break out the new package of candles Indra gave her for Secret Santa.

 

Lexa sighs in relief when her house comes into view. It’s quite possibly the brightest home in the neighborhood and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t proud of it. Some of the decorations are a bit clumsy since Aden helped her; the wreath is crooked and the stickers on the windows are haphazard and filled with air bubbles. She loves it.

 

She stops in her tracks when she reaches the top of her steps, though. Her heart sinks. Her door is cracked open. Who the hell breaks into someone’s house on Christmas Eve? She clutches her box of papers to her chest and leans in, hovering her ear near the crack. Can’t hear anything...Okay, so maybe she just forgot to shut and lock the door this morning. She’s been working so hard the past week she hasn’t been eating or sleeping very well and her head’s been fuzzy so that’s a reasonable explanation. Just in case, she slips in and silently sets the box on the floor before grabbing the baseball bat she keeps in the hallway. She clutches it at the ready, quietly creeping through the doorway. She spies a shadow moving and raises the bat high, heart jumping up into her throat, following the shadow to the figure standing by the fireplace. But it’s—oh.

 

What the hell.

 

The person standing there, wearing a _very_ revealing Santa costume, turns around, eyes widening as she takes in Lexa, and oh... _oh_.

 

 _(Ho, ho, homo,_ whispers Anya’s voice in her head).

 

Oh, God. She’s gorgeous and Lexa is so, _so_ gay. There’s definitely no fire in the grate, but the room feels so warm right now, and not even the pleasant tug down low in her stomach is enough to distract Lexa as she takes it all in, gaze sweeping over the stranger’s body, lingering at the expanse of skin revealed—creamy thighs and plunging cleavage—and her head spins. She doesn’t even register the fact that she’s lowered the bat until she hears it thud on the floor. Blonde curls are nestled under a deliberately lopsided Santa hat and pink lips are parted in surprise and Lexa wonders why the room seems to narrow to this woman, inexplicably standing in front of her fireplace in a ridiculous costume that does wonders for her impressive figure. Black creeps into Lexa’s vision, framing the stranger in a vignette—and by the time Lexa realizes why, it’s too late. Her eyes roll back into her head as she falls backwards. She registers a faint gasp before everything goes black.

 

\\\

 

1219 W Grand St. Clarke blinks up at the house in surprise, taking in the many colorful lights blinking back at her. There are snowman stickers clumsily plastered on the windows. There’s an honest to God fancy decorative wreath hanging on the door. She can’t see much through the darkened windows, but she’s pretty sure there are distant lights twinkling from inside, too. Jesus. She had no idea Finn was so festive. When the hell did that happen?

 

It’s not that surprising that she doesn’t know. He hasn’t been a part of her life in over four years. She hadn’t even spoken to him until last week at Gina’s party and even then, she certainly hadn’t anticipated she’d be texting him a few days later. Definitely hadn’t expected to be standing outside his front door wearing a form-fitting white-fur trimmed red dress complete with a matching hat, a wide buckle belt, and knee-high black boots, but here she is.

 

It’s completely ridiculous, but she lost a bet and this is the price she pays. Like Octavia said, she’s the one who instigated this anyway. Clarke Griffin never bows out of a deal.

 

She shivers; this dress doesn’t cover much, and it’s starting to snow. She thumbs through the texts she’d exchanged with Finn again. This is definitely the address he gave her, so she steps up to the door and finds it unlocked, just as he said it would be.

 

She slips inside the house, easily making her way down the hallway with the lit Christmas tree in the living room guiding her way. Once she reaches it, she pauses, further taken aback—impressed, even. It’s wide, roomy, and beautifully decorated. The tree has to be at least eight feet tall and is decked out in countless ornaments and twinkling lights. There are already presents arranged underneath it, neatly wrapped and practically sparkling with individually hand-wrought bows. This is the first thing that truly gives Clarke pause. It may have been a few years, but when she dated Finn he was basically a human disaster and always forgot to buy Christmas presents, and when he did, they certainly didn’t look as pretty as that. But hey, growth is a thing, maybe he’s just evolved.

 

Then she notices the photographs on the mantle above the fireplace, propped up between the already-bulging stockings that hang down. They're mostly of a cute kid with sandy blonde hair and a wide grin, but there are some of a woman with him. Clarke leans for a closer look, eyes narrowing. Whoever this woman is, she’s absolutely beautiful; just looking at her is enough to have Clarke’s stomach fluttering. Gorgeous green eyes, great hair, a jawline that looks like it’s been carved from marble. Jesus. She lingers on one of the smaller photographs propped up on the mantle. They’re outside somewhere, posing with big smiles and extended arms, and it must be windy because the woman’s dark hair is whipping wildly around her pretty face.

 

Clarke straightens up and just stands there, frozen with the thought that this woman must be connected to Finn in some way considering this is his house and his mantle those photos are decorating. There are three stockings and all have one letter stamped on the trim: one with an L, one with an A, and one with an F. It feels like an icy bucket of water has been dumped on her head when Clarke realizes what this could mean, and her mouth falls open as her fist closes around the air.

 

That motherfucker.

 

Was this his _wife and child?_

 

Clarke stands there, heart thundering in her ears. She can’t believe it. Was this asshole planning on having an _affair_ with her? Did he invite her back to his _family_ home? Okay, wait a minute. As if that weren’t bad enough, it’s after five on a Monday night, on Christmas Eve. Where the hell are his wife and kid at?

 

She’s going to kill him. Her wide eyes fall on the stoker propped up against the fireplace. She’s going to stab him with that. Her blood boils in her veins and she might just have to spend Christmas in prison because _she is going to kill him._

 _  
_Clarke is so deeply consumed in her rage that she doesn’t hear the door open or a second person join her in the room, not until she hears the creak of floorboard behind her. She whirls around to see the woman—the _woman from the photographs_ —staring at her with an equally shocked expression. For a long moment, they simply gape at each other, and a thousand things run through Clarke’s mind. The woman drops the baseball bat, which is a relief, but Clarke remembers the fireplace poker and thinks maybe she’s the one who will be killed with that because this woman just came home to find her husband’s mistress dressed in a slutty santa costume standing in her living room.

 

And if that isn’t bad enough, the woman turns even paler until, before Clarke’s very eyes, she _faints,_ and starts to crumple to the floor like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Clarke lurches forward, knees jamming hard into the plush carpet as she attempts to catch the woman but doesn’t quite succeed. She instead ends up tumbling them over and then she’s half-sprawled atop her, legs bracketing her hips. She pushes herself up onto all fours to blink down at the woman.

 

(Fuck, it is _definitely_ the woman from the photographs. And she’s even more gorgeous in person.)

 

Clarke isn’t sure if she could be in a more incriminating position. Any moment now presumably Finn’s child will walk into the house to see his mother lying unconscious beneath a stranger wearing a Santa Claus outfit. Not only is Clarke in a very compromising situation, but this is probably going to have some type of effect on the kid’s belief in Santa Claus. Jesus Christ, he hasn’t even walked in yet and Clarke is already internally panicking at the fact that she’s just ruined Christmas.

 

Okay, okay, one thing at a time. First there’s an unconscious woman to worry about. Clarke scans her gaze over a criminally beautiful face...God, her bone structure alone...those cheekbones, and a cutting jawline… and those thick long lashes and perfect pouty lips… How the hell did Finn manage this? She’s _way_ out of his league.

 

_Jesus, Clarke, focus._

 

She wishes she paid more attention to her mother’s career growing up. She knows next to nothing about healthcare. What are you supposed to do in this situation? Wincing slightly, she gently taps her fingers on the woman’s cheek.

 

“Uh, hey, wake up. Come on, wake up.”

 

No response.

 

Clarke’s heart hammers in her chest as she gingerly slips her hand just inside the collar of the woman’s shirt, pressing her palm to her chest. Her stomach twists violently at the faint heartbeat she feels in response. And is she breathing? Fuck. Clarke rears up, puts her hands on the woman’s chest and presses down a few times, a few manic reels of The Office sweeping through her head as she tries to remember the rhythm. What next, what next?

 

CPR, or uh, mouth to mouth, that’s it, that makes sense. She doesn’t hesitate, flatting her hands on the floor on either side of the woman’s face, careful not to slip in the generous expanse of rich brown locks fanning out, and bends down.

 

“Please don’t die,” she whispers desperately, before lowering her head.

 

//

 

“— come on, stranger, wake up. Wake up. Come on. Oh, God, please wake up. I have a deadline due next week and I can’t go to prison for murder. Wake up!”

 

Lexa’s lashes flutter as she comes to. The first thing she registers is the soft hand pressed against her face. The second is the tickling of hair as it brushes across her chin.

 

The third is the soft set of lips pressing to hers.

 

Lexa’s eyes fly open, and she can’t cope with what she’s seeing. An ethereal being, too gorgeous to be real, is bent over her, Santa hat askew and hair falling in a golden curtain to frame their faces. The stranger is pressing parted lips to Lexa’s and Lexa doesn’t think, she just reacts on instinct— specifically, she closes her eyes and presses back into the kiss, hands reaching up to grip the woman’s waist.

 

There’s a strangled squeak and the woman jerks as though startled, but Lexa is already parting her own lips to close them over a full bottom lip, lightly scraping her teeth across, and swallowing the slight gasp the stranger spills into her mouth. There’s a half a beat of hesitation, and then the stranger’s lips move against Lexa’s in a measured rhythm that has Lexa’s stomach fluttering and her heart thrumming. It’s only a handful of seconds, but that’s enough for at least two good kisses that have Lexa feeling quite faint all over again.

 

Then the woman is pulling back with a pop and Lexa’s left lying flat on the floor, practically panting. She pushes herself up onto her elbows and blinks at this stranger— the woman garbed head to toe in a sexy Santa costume.

 

“Um,” says the woman, and Lexa can relate. “What was what?”

 

“I could say the same thing,” says Lexa breathlessly. Her face burns with embarrassment, mortification and the slightest hint of rejection mixing together.

 

The woman splutters. “You just kissed me!”

 

“You kissed me first!”

 

“I was giving you CPR,” the woman explains in mingled desperation and exasperation. Her cheeks are still rosy red as she reaches up to rub the back of her neck. “I was trying to make sure you didn’t just die!”

 

“That is not CPR,” says Lexa, baffled.

 

The woman rolls her eyes, blushing harder than ever. “Yeah, well, my mom’s the doctor, not me. All that medical stuff goes right over my head. And I wasn’t exactly thinking straight!”

 

 _Join the club,_ thinks Lexa. “So I walk into the room and faint and you think the solution is to give me mouth to mouth?”

 

“So you wake up from unconsciousness and assume someone is kissing you and you think the solution is to kiss them back?”

 

Touche, but that begs a new question. Lexa tilts her head. “Why are you in my house, anyway?” Her eyes narrow as a new thought occurs. “Are you a stripper? Did Anya send you?”

 

“What? No!” The stranger looks a little offended and Lexa’s cheeks burn all the brighter. “Do you usually have strippers dressed up in Santa costumes?”

 

“Nope,” says Lexa, wishing she could just sink through the floor.

 

The woman’s brow creases, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Why would you even think I’m a stripper? You just...I mean, is this a normal occurrence?”

 

Lexa stares at her. Is coming home to a stranger dressed as Santa Claus standing in her living room and then waking up in her arms to the mother of all kisses a normal occurrence? “Um, no.” She tilts her head, frowning back. “Is it for you?”

 

The woman shakes her head, frown deeper than ever, and presses her hands to her forehead. “I am so confused right now.”

 

“Same.” The woman’s lower lip juts out in a pout that immediately draws Lexa’s eye, and then she’s remembering how she woke up and….wow, yep, feeling really dizzy again. Lexa sways and barely registers the woman’s expression of alarm before she slumps back down, and she doesn’t think she passed out at first except she opens her eyes and the woman is hovering over her, and she definitely wasn’t so close a second ago.

 

“Oh, thank God,” breathes the angel above her, blue eyes filled with relief. “Are you _okay?”_ Lexa doesn’t answer, too busy staring at her, and the woman is suddenly concerned again. Fingers lightly tap the right side of Lexa’s face, drifting over her cheekbone, and she dazedly realizes she’s half lying in this woman’s arms. “Hey, hey, look at me. Look at me. Can you tell me your name?”

 

Lexa clears her throat, wets her lips, watches the woman glance down to watch her do it. Lexa’s heart thuds against her rib cage. “Lexa,” she croaks.

 

“Lexa. Can you tell me what day it is, Lexa?”

 

“Christmas. Eve,” she adds after a moment, when the woman seems to be waiting for something.

 

The woman nods, looking marginally relieved, and raises both hands. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

 

Lexa looks at the six fingers she holds and breathes the answer. The woman holds up nine next and when Lexa answers correctly again, she sighs, her shoulders sagging.

 

“Good, good. Are you— I mean. Do you know why you fainted? Did I just take you by surprise or what?”

 

“Surprised me,” manages Lexa, heart trembling again as she meets the most beautiful eyes she’s ever seen in her life, “And...low blood sugar. It’s happened before.”

 

“Okay, so you need to eat something.” The woman twists around to look behind herself. Lexa watches, entranced, at the way her golden curls bounce as they tumble over her shoulder. “Is that your kitchen in there? Can you tell me where to go so I can get you something to eat?” she asks, looking back at Lexa. “Do you have any peanut butter crackers or anything?”

 

“I have peanut butter in the cabinet above the stove,” says Lexa. “Spoons are in the drawer beneath.”

 

The woman nods and carefully untangles herself from Lexa. Lexa feels dizzier than ever as she watches her walk away, the skirt of her dress swaying with her hips. _What_ is even that outfit?

 

“Here,” says the stranger upon returning, handing Lexa a jar of peanut butter and a spoon along with a banana for good measure. “Eat.”

 

Lexa ignores the way her face heats all the way to the tips of her ears. She sits up and digs into the peanut butter. Silence stretches between them, the woman alternating between looking at Lexa and at the empty fireplace. Lexa feels a bit of her strength return after she polishes off the banana, and she can see the woman shivering, so she scoots over to the fireplace and gets a fire going. The woman eyes the way she handles the poker, seeming to relax somewhat when Lexa props it back up in its place next to the grate.

 

“So....” Lexa tilts her head, frowning. “Who are you and why are you in my house?”

 

“I’m Clarke,” says the woman, who looks guilty as all get out as she extends a hand for Lexa’s. Lexa shakes it, trying to ignore the squirming in her stomach at the sensation of Clarke’s hand in hers. “I’m...I don’t really know how to say this.”

 

“I take it you weren’t delivering presents.” The joke doesn’t quite land the way she hopes it to. Clarke bites her lip and Lexa again glances at how her dress rides up high on her thighs, especially with the way Clarke sits on the floor with her legs folded beneath her.

 

“No. I, uh. I was supposed to meet Finn here.”

 

Clarke peers closely at Lexa, tense with worry, but Lexa just waits, expecting further explanation. When Clarke doesn’t provide one, Lexa prompts, “Okay...who is Finn and why were you meeting in my house? Wait.” Lexa’s brow draws together, lips downturning as she casts a shrewd gaze over Clarke, seeing her in an entirely new light. “Were you going to rob me? Is this some kind of weird holiday Bonnie and Clyde thing?”

 

“No!” bursts Clarke, looking shocked at the mere insinuation. She pauses. “Wait, so you don’t know who Finn is?”

 

“No,” says Lexa, bewildered. “Should I?” Her brows shoot to her hairline as Clarke closes her eyes and sighs, appearing overwhelmingly relieved as she leans back on her hands.

 

“Oh, thank God. Jesus Christ on a stick, that’s a relief.” She blushes slightly under Lexa’s nonplussed stare. “I was supposed to meet up with this guy Finn, he texted me his address but...that clearly wasn’t right.” She frowns suddenly and pulls out her phone. The fire crackles in the sudden silence as Clarke texts whoever this Finn is.

 

“He meant 1218,” she says heavily after a moment, nostrils temporarily flaring in irritation from being in the wrong house. She rolls her eyes. “Apparently he just moved in.”

 

“My new neighbor,” says Lexa as understanding dawns. Hair, Anya had called him. He’d only moved in a few weeks ago. “I thought his name was Collin.”

 

“Collins is his last name.” Clarke sighs, dropping her hands in her lap, phone lighting up with a text she ignores. She meets Lexa’s gaze with earnest blue...the literal bluest eyes Lexa has ever seen. God. “I am so sorry. This is probably the most mortifying experience I’ve ever had. I don’t even know what to say.”

 

Lexa decides that, though this has technically been pretty embarrassing for herself as well, she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t kinda enjoying this too.

 

She gestures at Clarke with an upturned chin. “What’s with the outfit?”

 

Clarke flushes as red as her costume. “Um. Long story short, I lost a bet with my friend Octavia and had to wear this to my next...uh. Outing.” She cringes, though she smiles a little when Lexa’s lips quirk up. “Hook-up. Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

 

“So…” Lexa draws the word out, arching a brow at Clarke and kinda enjoying the way she seems to flush. “This is a guy you just met, or…? Not that it’s any of my business.”

 

Clarke waves her hand dismissively. “No, no, I know him. I mean, it’s not even a thing. We used to date ages ago but we broke up. I ran into him at a coworker’s party and we reconnected. It’s... well. You know, it’s the holidays, and my mom’s out of the country with her husband.” Clarke trails off in uncertainty and glances at Lexa, waiting for her to say something. Lexa doesn’t know what to say so she just remains quiet; Clarke licks her lips and takes a breath and seems to helplessly nose-dive into word vomit. “And most of my friends have kids now, and I didn’t have anything to do, and I broke off my last relationship at the beginning of the year so it’s been months since I...I mean. You know. It’s been months. I’ve been lonely, and suddenly Finn was just _there_ , and he gave me his number at the party so I thought why not, and—”

 

She falls silent when Lexa briefly places a hand over Clarke’s. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

 

Clarke blinks, blue eyes darting down at Lexa’s hand before skimming over the living room. They soften with mingled amusement and guilt. “I kinda do. I broke into your house, after all.”

 

That has a laugh bubbling out of Lexa’s lips. “Fair enough.”

 

“I’m seriously sorry,” says Clarke again, looking sheepishly at her. “I should probably get out of your hair now, huh? Um, are you— are you feeling okay, can I help you up?”

 

“I’m still pretty light headed actually,” says Lexa with forced nonchalance, avoiding Clarke’s eyes for her next words. “I should probably have dinner.”

 

“Probably. Do you need help with that?” Her gaze snaps onto Clarke again; to her credit, she’s not blushing again but she’s looking toward the kitchen once more. “I can fix you something.”

 

“I have some leftovers from El Comandante if you’d like to share them,” offers Lexa, picking at a stray thread on her sleeve and realizing with a sort of abject horror that she’s still wearing the stupid sweater Anya gave her. She swallows down her blush and forces herself to look up at Clarke. “Chicken nachos and guac.” Clarke’s brows shoot up once again and Lexa chickens out. “Yeah, no, you probably need to go meet Finn, don’t you?”

 

“Actually, he texted me that he’s going to be late at work,” says Clarke, sparing her phone a withering glance before giving Lexa a soft smile. “Listen, considering I broke into your house and scared the hell out of you, I think warming up your dinner is the least I can do. Come on.”

 

She rises to her feet and offers a hand to Lexa, pulling her up and steadying her when Lexa sways, though it’s more due to the sudden unexpected proximity to cleavage than being upright. Clarke firmly grasps her arm and walks with her to the kitchen, ushering Lexa into a chair. She follows Lexa’s directions to hunt down plates and the leftovers, and they make idle smalltalk as Clarke heats them up and breaks open a bag of chips. As awkward as their meeting was—not to mention Clarke’s still clad in her outfit, and Lexa’s very aware she’s still wearing the ridiculous sweater Anya gave her—it’s not uncomfortable at all as Lexa leans her elbows on the table and Clarke navigates her way around her kitchen and they chat like they’re old friends.

 

“Can I confess something to you?” asks Clarke when they’re halfway through their plates. Lexa swallows a chunk of chicken and nods. “When I came in and I saw all your photos, I freaked out. I thought you were Finn’s wife and that boy in all your pictures was his kid.”

 

Lexa nearly chokes on her gulp of water. “Gay.”

 

“What?”

 

“Me.” Lexa coughs, eyes streaming as she gasps for air, taking another drink in an attempt to settle herself. It helps. She clears her throat and tries again. “Gay.”

 

“Me gay? You’re gay?” Clarke’s gaze sweeps up and down her again and Lexa has to wonder if Clarke thinks she’s about to pass out again as Lexa nods enthusiastically.

 

“Yes. I’m so gay. No—no husband.” She takes a breath, clearing her throat again as the stubborn cough finally fades away. “God, sorry. Anyways. Yes, I’m gay, definitely no husband. Or kid, for that matter. That’s Aden, my nephew. I just spoil him rotten, he gets his own stocking over here and everything.”

 

“Oh. But, that one stocking with the F on it…”

 

“Fish. Aden’s dog.”

 

Clarke’s lips quirk. “A dog named Fish?”

 

“It’s a long story,” says Lexa with a wave of her hand. “Anyway. So you thought we were Finn’s family and, what, he sent you to his house anyway?” asks Lexa incredulously. She chuckles when Clarke gives a rueful nod. “Wow. That would have been really bad.”

 

“I was prepared to murder him,” says Clarke casually as she digs into her nachos again. “I couldn’t believe it. And then when you walked in, I thought _you_ were going to murder _me._ ”

 

“I mean, I was prepared to,” says Lexa with a little smirk. “I thought you were a burglar. Then I saw the Santa costume and I was very confused. Almost made me a believer.”

 

“I bet.” The crooked curve to Clarke’s lips has Lexa’s heart kicking up again. She looks down at her meal, cheeks warming. “I am really sorry, again. What a weird situation.”

 

Lexa hums in agreement. “The weirdest part of this night is actually the fact that you thought I could have a husband.”

 

Clarke's smile widens, the corners crooking up into a wolfish grin. “I mean, the gay thing makes perfect sense, actually.”

 

Lexa squints her eyes a bit, trying to decide whether to focus on Clarke saying ‘the gay thing'- which is offensive as hell if she's straight… or stick to the subject matter. She’s curious enough she goes for the latter. “Why's that?”

 

“Well for one, you kissed me. Two, I don't think you've made it a full two minutes without glancing here.” She points at her cleavage then and Lexa can feel it: the ugly flush lighting her face up as bright as her favorite candles. She coughs and takes another drink to stall, ignoring Clarke's smug grin.

 

“I told you it was an accident,” she says a bit hoarsely a second later, delicately avoiding Clarke's second point and staring pointedly at the remains of her nachos as she scoops up the last of the guac onto a chip.

 

“I think ‘instinct’ was your exact word.”

 

Lexa narrows her eyes. “I don’t think you’re one to talk about instinct when yours was to give a very poor interpretation of CPR to someone who just passed out.”

 

“Okay, I deserve that,” concedes Clarke, smiling good-naturedly as she takes another bite. “Thank God you weren’t like, shot or anything, because my solution for that would probably just be to grab a bowl of water and hope for the best.”

 

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

 

“You would think.”

 

Lexa decides to drop it, shaking her head. She prods her fork around on her plate, stalling from eating the last of her food. Does it make her pathetic that she doesn’t want this to end? A bizarre situation, yes, but she’s enjoying this. Clarke is funny and charming and, well, there’s no use pretending she’s not gorgeous, too. The fact that Lexa can’t stop thinking about how soft her lips were doesn’t help matters either. She’s found herself quite besotted.

 

“Well, thanks for letting me share your dinner,” says Clarke, who took almost as long as Lexa did to finally clear her plate. Lexa’s heart wobbles in response to the pretty smile Clarke gives her. “And thanks for not murdering me for breaking and entering and, uh, kinda assaulting you while I was at it. I swear I’m not usually like this.”

 

 _What are you usually like?_ wonders Lexa. She doesn’t say it.

 

To Lexa’s surprise, Clarke does not immediately leave. She helps Lexa carry the dishes to the sink and then even helps her wash them and put them away. All too soon, they’re left standing in the kitchen with nothing else to do, and Lexa’s heart is pounding in the stilted silence. She’s about to offer a drink when Clarke’s phone chimes.

 

“Oh, it’s Finn,” says Clarke, completely oblivious to the twist to Lexa’s expression as her heart plummets to her toes. “He’s off work and wants to take me out for a drink to make up for it, I guess.” Clarke makes a face, glancing down at her outfit, and Lexa quickly rips her gaze away from the cleavage it was immediately drawn to. “I think I should probably go home and change first, huh.”

 

“Probably,” manages Lexa. As far as she’s concerned, Clarke could wear that outfit forever if she wants.

 

“I guess I’d better head out.” Clarke sighs, tucking her phone into her skirt pocket again, and gives Lexa a smile that seems tinged with something else. “It was nice to meet you, Lexa, though, y’know…” The smile turns rueful. “The circumstances probably could have been better.”

 

Lexa can’t bring herself to say anything so she doesn’t do much beyond force a smile and nod, walking Clarke to the door. She wants to say something, but how can she? Of course Clarke has someone waiting for her.

 

They pause on the doorstep and Clarke looks so pretty Lexa can barely stand it. She wants to ask for her number, but the fact that Clarke is about to go meet someone looms overhead.

 

“Well, um. Bye. Thanks again, and um...sorry again for...you know.” Clarke makes a vague gesture in reference to the entire evening.

 

“I got a pretty girl taking care of me on Christmas Eve,” Lexa shrugs. “Things could be worse.”

 

The smile Clarke shoots her is warm and grateful. “Considering everything, I think it’s the least I could do.”

 

Clarke quickly leans forward to press a kiss to Lexa’s cheek, sending Lexa’s head spinning. Lexa briefly considers the merits of pretending to pass out again but Clarke is already walking away, hurrying to catch the bus. She pauses at the street, turning to wave goodbye at Lexa. Lexa’s hand is still up in the air when the bus pulls away, taking Clarke with it.

 

“Fuck,” Lexa mutters to herself, sighing as she shuts the door with a quiet click and pads back into the living room. It feels so empty now, so silent save for the crackling of the fire. There’s absolutely nothing to distract her from the heavy heat simmering in the pit of her stomach, nor anything to stop her thoughts from drifting back to where they shouldn’t.

 

That kiss. How could such a brief, unexpected kiss affect her so much? And, she realizes with a belated rush of arousal, Clarke had been bearing down on top of her then, full breasts pressing down against Lexa’s chest. Fuck, that cleavage. Lexa’s body is buzzing and she knows what she needs, but it feels wrong. She can’t do that. She needs to get it together.

 

Dazed, Lexa wanders across her living room to stand in front of the fire with no real destination in mind, picking up a figurine off her mantle and holding it in her hands, putting it down again before wandering over to her tree, distracted with an imagination that is now running wild with very real memories as solid foundations.

 

Clarke had been straddling her. She had thick thighs, Lexa is so weak for those— and they’d been split over Lexa’s hips, the warmth of her center hovering just above—

 

Okay now this is verging into inappropriate and creepy. Lexa swallows guiltily, unable to thoroughly chastise herself when her mind once more drifts to the image of Clarke’s thighs...and her hips, and her breasts, and her smile and those eyes—

 

Oh, who is she kidding. Lexa gives up. She groans and sits, slumps down into her recliner, sliding a hand down her pants without a second thought.

 

//

 

The bus jostles as it rumbles down the street, and Clarke’s stomach turns with it. She feels the strangest mix of disappointment and desire. Every part of her aches to get off the bus and go back.

 

She tries to distract herself with her phone, googling the steps of CPR and reading a How-To article until Finn texts her to let her know he’s arrived at the bar. Clarke hovers her thumb over the phone. She doesn’t want to meet him, that’s the thing. If she’s being honest, what she wants is to go back to Lexa and have a second go on that whole mouth-to-mouth thing. Maybe try some other areas she can put her mouth.

 

It’s insane how much one person she literally _just_ met can occupy her mind. Lexa was so pretty, and funny, and intriguing how sometimes she seemed so shy but then sometimes there was nothing shy at all in the way she looked at her, plump mouth set in a diffident line but eyes dark and bold and lingering. And the way she’d kissed her, how soft and open her mouth was beneath hers. Just thinking about it sends a low pull swirling through Clarke’s stomach, has her shifting restlessly in her seat.

 

Jesus. She already feels like enough of a dick for breaking into a stranger’s house wearing this outfit, let alone having an impromptu dinner after causing said stranger to faint. She can’t possibly go back there…

 

But like, would she be unwelcome? She doesn’t think so. Now that she thinks about it, Lexa certainly hadn’t been able to keep her eyes off her, though Clarke figures this outfit is enough to do that to anyone, if the stares she’s getting from those sharing this bus with her are any indication. But then there was that _kiss..._

 

She gazes out the window, eyes glazing over as the memory overwhelmes her. It lights her up, a fire that travels from her chest right down to pool in her stomach. Fuck. Who is she even kidding here?

 

She hops off the bus at the next stop and hurries back, adreneline surging the whole way. She hadn’t gotten very far at all, so in no time she’s standing before Lexa’s place, nerves thrumming and heart beating fast.

 

She raps her knuckles on the door and waits. And waits. Waits long enough to frown and wonder if maybe Lexa left. She knocks one more time, and then stands shivering on the doorstep for hardly a second before the door finally swings open. Lexa just looks at her, lips parted and eyes wide, and silence swells between them until Clarke can’t stand it anymore.

 

“So I was thinking,” she begins breathlessly, trying her best to maintain an air of nonchalance despite the heat twisting in her stomach, “that my medical skills really aren’t up to par, and maybe we could practice our CPR skills a little more just in case you— “ She pauses, mouth hanging open, when she really _takes in_ Lexa’s appearance.

 

Clarke hasn’t been gone long yet Lexa looks _wildly_ different. Flushed skin glowing with a thin layer of sweat, red-faced, dilated pupils, hair a bit mussed and clothes all wrinkled and rumpled… Arousal hits Clarke like a train, stomach physically aching and blood rushing. “Were you just,” blurts Clarke, wide-eyed and astonished and still stumbling over her words when Lexa seizes her by her thick Santa belt and tugs her across the doorway and right into her arms. Their mouths crash together and Clarke is pretty sure she never needs to talk again.

 

They stagger their way down the hallway, lips fused and hands roaming, Lexa’s fingers burning everywhere she touches. Clarke shivers, spilling a gasp into the seam of Lexa’s lips when her fingertips skim her thighs, slipping under the white-fur trim of her dress. Clarke clutches at Lexa’s narrow waist, relishing the strength in the girl pressed up against her, sweeping her tongue into her mouth and swallowing the quiet gasps that crawl out of her throat.

 

Bells jingle on Lexa’s sweater as they stumble over the Christmas Tree rug and into the living room. Lexa reaches up for a better grip to kiss Clarke more firmly, one hand gripping Clarke’s hip and the other rising to hold her face. Clarke’s eyes flutter open, startled at the sudden sensation of something wet sliding across her cheek. Fingers. The first two fingers of Lexa’s right hand, she’d been cupping Clarke’s face in her hand and…

 

They both freeze, and Lexa yanks back her hand like it’s been burned.

 

“Oh my God I’m sorry,” chokes Lexa, dark eyes wide with alarm and face glowing red. She goes even more still when Clarke closes her eyes. But Clarke only does it to take a minute because, Jesus fucking Christ. Jesus. _Fucking_ Christ.

 

She shakes her head slowly, licking her lips, holding Lexa more tightly when Lexa makes to move back.

 

“Oh, Lexa,” she breathes out, intending to playfully admonish but she’s not sure it comes across that way when her voice has dropped an octave, and Lexa has hardly a second to relax before Clarke is shoving her back into the recliner and climbing into her lap.

 

//

 

Well, Clarke is definitely _not_ straight.

 

This is the best Christmas Eve ever.

 

Lexa thinks about teasing Clarke that she’s pretty sure this is not the way this is supposed to go— with Santa sitting on _her_ lap. But she’s distracted the moment Clarke throws her hat aside and starts to undress. She watches with mounting intensity as Clarke’s fingers work the clasp of her belt. The heavy frame draws its weight and clatters to the floor. Lexa bites at her lower lip, eyes drawn up to the cleavage that’s basically eye-level now with Clarke straddling her lap in the recliner she’d just been imagining this happening in not too long ago. It seems Christmas miracles really do come true. 

 

“This okay?” rasps Clarke, taking Lexa’s hands and hovering them over her body.

 

Lexa is so wet she’s pretty sure she’ll never be dry again. She nods rapidly, dropping her hands, squeezing the flesh underneath. Clarke hums, rocking her hips slowly. Warm lips slant over Lexa’s and she loses herself in them for a time, until she’s far too desperate to see more, to feel more, and has to do something about it.

 

“Can we take this off?” she asks, pointedly pinching at the dress, and Clarke slides off her without another word.

 

Lexa watches, mouth dry and body tingling, as Clarke peels her dress off, blue eyes watching Lexa watch her. Lexa is still in the recliner, eyes intensely focused on each inch of bare skin revealed until finally Clarke is standing there wearing nothing but lacy red lingerie, and Lexa is about to die. Clarke drops to her knees before Lexa and grips her pants, pulling them off underwear and all, and Lexa is definitely dying.

 

“Your turn,” murmurs Clarke, standing up again to observe with eyes so dark they seem more black than blue as Lexa hurriedly yanks her sweater off, cringing at the obnoxious ringing of bells as she drops it on the floor. She reaches behind to unclasp her bra while she’s at it. She leans back in the chair completely naked and Clarke looks at her like she’s about to devour her.

 

Her recliner is going to stain, Lexa absently realizes as she squirms in it. She doesn’t care.

 

Clarke pauses to push her underwear down her legs, kicking off the thin fabric and then sliding back onto Lexa’s lap without a moment’s hesitation. The scent of arousal fills the air and Lexa already feels on the verge of coming simply from having the weight of Clarke’s warm, naked body settling atop her.

 

They kiss for a time, slow and languid at first before shifting gear, deepening and turning urgent. She kneads the firm flesh of Clarke’s ass, encouraging her to start grinding against her, nearly gasping at the sensation of wet heat rubbing right over her lower stomach. Scratchy lace rubs against Lexa’s chest and she wonders why the hell Clarke’s bra is still on before realizing maybe she wants her to take it off her. She doesn’t waste another minute, reaching behind Clarke to unclasp it. Clarke shrugs it off and then— God.

 

Lexa watches the sway of those breasts, entranced, and doesn’t realize Clarke has been calling her name until insistent fingers press against her chin to upturn her face. She blinks dazedly, Clarke’s face swimming back into view.

 

“You’re not gonna pass out on me again, are you?” asks Clarke, the corners of her lips quirking up in a lopsided smirk.

 

Lexa echoes it, paying little heed to the blush creeping up her already flushed face. “Don’t test me.” She swallows Clarke’s amused huff before trailing down to sample the sweet taste of her skin, sweat collecting in the hollow of her throat. “But if I did, would I get another kiss out of it?”

 

“You were the one who kissed me.” Clarke gasps, shudders as Lexa wraps her lips around a pretty pink nipple, gently coaxing it into a stiff peak with the tip of her tongue. “I was— I was just trying to be a good citizen.”

 

“You’re being very good right now,” Lexa assures her, heavily eyes trained on the way Clarke shudders again at her words, hips jerking in an uneven rhythm before resuming their grind with more urgency than before.

 

She slips a hand between Clarke’s legs, fingers trailing up the inside of warm thighs, seeking out the blistering heat between them. They both swallow back whimpers when her fingers trip through slippery folds. Clarke rolls her hips once more and suddenly she’s riding Lexa’s fingers rather than her thigh, but the wetness there provides a slick friction for the back of Lexa’s hand to move on. Lexa loses herself in this, busying herself with open-mouthed kisses to the warm curve of Clarke’s neck, scraping her teeth across her shoulders and collarbone, lathing her tongue over hard nipples and sucking between gentle bites. Clarke’s moans fill the empty house with the crackling fire behind them, followed by the loud creaking of the recliner as they rock in it.

 

Clarke slams her hips down, impaling herself on Lexa’s long fingers while her own dig into Lexa’s shoulders, nails cutting thin half-moons in Lexa’s skin. Her gasps come more frequently, louder and higher-pitched, her hips losing rhythm as she chases her release. Lexa can feel it build in the fluttering of muscles clenching around her fingers, in the staccato grinding of her hips, in the way her body judders and shudders. Lexa extends her thumb up so Clarke can rub against it as she thrusts, and that’s all it takes before Clarke is coming into her hand.

 

“Oh fuck, _fuck,_ _Lexa_ —”

 

Lexa uses her free hand to push Clarke’s sweat-damp hair out of her face, pressing a firm kiss to her temple as Clarke comes down. Clarke nuzzles into her, nose trailing her neck and drawing a sharp gasp from Lexa, who has always been sensitive there. Clarke picks up on it and lingers, one kiss turning into two into three, until she’s sucking a bruise there and Lexa’s moaning and arching her back, shuddering when Clarke cups her breasts in both hands, thumb sweeping over her nipples.

 

“Come here,” she whispers, leaning back and lowering herself to the floor.

 

The rug that sits before the fire beside the recliner is soft and warm. Clarke splays across it, hands on Lexa’s hips guiding her to lay atop her. Every inch of smooth, heated skin pressing together has Lexa choking back moans.

 

Clarke spreads her legs, knees nudging Lexa’s until she has to spread them and lift herself up on all fours to avoid squashing Clarke, and she realizes that’s exactly what Clarke wanted to happen a moment later, when Clarke’s left hand is trailing down her stomach heading for the juncture of her thighs. Her right hand cups her ass, squeezes encouragingly as she sucks Lexa’s bottom lip into her mouth and bites down just as she glides her fingers over Lexa’s clit.

 

It goes almost embarrassingly quickly. Clarke rubs at her clit for hardly any time at all before Lexa is coming hard, dropping her weight down and muffling her moans in cleavage that has her spilling even harder. Clarke doesn’t let up, only nudges Lexa up on her shaky limbs again so she can slip a finger inside her and pump slowly until Lexa’s gained a second wind and starts grinding to meet her thrusts. Clarke enters a second finger and Lexa’s a goner.

 

She slumps down on Clarke, body trembling. Clarke presses a kiss to the crown of her head, smoothing her hair back before drifting her hands down the length of Lexa’s back. Lexa skips a drowsy kiss directly beneath where her head lays, where Clarke’s heart pounds, and becomes acutely aware of the heat she’s laying on between Clarke’s legs. It sends fresh want pooling low, and she kisses Clarke fiercely for only a moment before pushing herself up and descending down Clarke’s body. When she settles between her legs and drinks her in, she’s decided she never wants to do anything else with her life besides this. Clarke’s groaned curse words seem to echo in agreement.

 

Then a harsh buzzing sounds and Lexa drops a muttered curse into the wetness she’s been acquainting herself with. She knows exactly who is calling. She tries to ignore it, but the phone just keeps buzzing and even Clarke is huffing when Lexa stills.

 

Lexa knows Anya is pissed she isn’t at the party, and she know she’s not going to stop calling until Lexa picks up. Biting back a growl, Lexa lifts her head and leans over Clarke’s leg to snatch her phone off the floor where it’s been since she first came home and fainted.

 

“What? What are you doing?” says Clarke incredulously. She frowns and tilts her hips up when Lexa says hang on and punches answer call on her phone.

 

As expected, Anya immediately starts snarling at her. Clarke cants her hips up again and Lexa’s eyes are drawn to beautiful glistening folds. She takes advantage of Anya’s ranting to lean down and lick a long strip. Clarke gasps, back arching.

 

“Anya, listen, I have a good reason,” says Lexa, distractedly watching as Clarke cants up again, her body begging for it in the jerky shake of her hips.

 

“Oh, let me hear it then,” Lexa can practically hear Anya’s sneer. “This should be good. What, you’re too busy rereading The Prisoner of Azkaban for the thousandth time? Too busy binge-watching One Day At a Time again while you eat a stupid amount of peanut butter like it’s ice cream, what?”

 

Lexa watches, entranced, as the tip of her finger disappears inside Clarke, swallowed up entirely with another roll of Clarke’s hips. Her voice drops and she’s sure Anya will notice. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

 

“Try me,” challenges Anya, at the same time Clarke whines, “Lexa, please, just _fuck me.”_

 

That does it.

 

“Anya, I didn’t go because I’m having wild amazing sex with an intruder dressed in a sexy santa costume who gave me CPR and fed me dinner. And I’m actually still eating right now, so I gotta go. Bye.”

 

Lexa clicks her phone to Anya’s stunned silence, and throws it somewhere over her shoulder; it must land on the crumpled Christmas sweater because bells jingle with the thud, but they’re quickly drowned out by the sound of Clarke’s long, drawn-out moan in response to Lexa finally burying her face between her legs.

 

And well, it’s probably a good thing that Clarke has _some_ experience in CPR now, because Lexa might just drown.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact, Finn gets home later that night and they're so loud he can hear them from next door. He gets no sleep and is very grumpy at work the next day.


End file.
